Kate Hewitt - The Chatsfield - Series 2

He lifted his head, and she released her hold on him reluctantly. “Sophie, I need to ask you something.”

She shook her head. She knew whatever it was she didn’t want to talk about it right now. Because she didn’t want to talk about anything right now. She only wanted to feel, she didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to discuss.

Instead, she hooked her fingers in the waistband of her panties and shoved them down as far as she could, kicking them the rest of the way when she could no longer reach, her eyes locked with his as she did.

He nodded slowly, then he shifted, tugging his own underwear down. Then he bent to kiss her again, his lips soft and tender against hers. A surprise after the claiming from earlier. He shifted his weight, and put his hand between her thighs, guiding his fingertips through her slick folds. She was wet for him, ready for all of this, for everything.

A little shock of nerves went through her when she realized she hadn’t even seen him naked. But there would be plenty of time for that, plenty of time later. She ignored the feeling of the sand shifting beneath them, more time running out.

She gasped as he slipped one finger deep inside of her, the invasion strange and foreign. But not unpleasant. Not at all. He moved his thumb over her clitoris in time with the thrust of his finger, winding up the tension that had already been building in her core.

He continued to apply steady pressure, continued to keep the rhythm going, drawing her closer and closer to an abyss she could not see the bottom of. To a point she could not envision. It was all beyond her, beyond her experience.

And she was finding power in that. Power in being at his mercy, power in allowing him to teach her. To show her what her body wanted, what her body was made for. For the first time in her memory she felt like she was simply existing, not striving, not hiding. She felt so gloriously out in the open, so wonderfully exposed. And she had never imagined either of those things could possibly be good. But Zayn made them good. Zayn made them wonderful.

He kissed her, deep and hard, as he intensified the pressure between her thighs. The subtle change was just enough to show her how deep the well was. To drag her all the way to the bottom, holding her under until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but simply allow the release to wash over her, pleasure overcoming her completely. When she surfaced, she was breathing hard.

“I don’t know...I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice was rough, his breathing ragged.

“You won’t,” she said, the words meaningless, her lips numb. She didn’t know if she was telling the truth, didn’t know if it would hurt or not, but it seemed like the right thing to say. It seemed like the thing he needed to hear.

He slid his hand on her back, cupping her butt, and lifting her hips as he positioned the blunt head of his arousal against the slick entrance to her body. He met her eyes as he thrust deep inside of her, a shaft of pain shooting through her.

She gritted her teeth, screwing her eyes shut tight.

“Sophie,” he said, his voice gravel. “You said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I was wrong. I’m sorry.” Her throat was tight, the words difficult to force through the lump that was forming there.

“Don’t apologize to me.” His tone was regretful. “I should apologize to you.”

“Please don’t apologize to me. Please. Let’s just... Please.”

She was beyond speech, beyond thought. Yes, it had hurt, yes, it still hurt a little bit, but it was also wonderful. She had never felt so connected to anyone in her entire life. For the first time, she felt as though all of the pieces of herself and been swept up and pushed together. Made one. Not only was it impossible to tell where her body began and his ended, it was impossible to be anything but wholly her. Impossible to be false, impossible to be fragmented.

It was right. The most essentially right thing she had ever experienced.

He waited a moment, the tendons in his neck standing out, his jaw clenched tight. She noticed the muscles in his arms were trembling, as he held himself still.

“Zayn.” She said his name, and he started to move.

He started with slow, measured strokes, giving her time to adjust to the feeling of fullness, to the feeling of his body inside hers. Gradually, the discomfort began to recede, pleasure started to build.

She rocked against him, chasing the climax that was beginning to build inside of her again. His movements began to fracture, his control fraying, everything becoming harder, more desperate. And she was right there with him. She didn’t want slow anymore, she didn’t want gentle. She wanted it all. She wanted it fast, she wanted it now.

She clung to his shoulders, met his every thrust, her clitoris making contact with his pelvis, white-hot pleasure streaking through her body with each movement.

She could feel herself starting to slip, starting to head back toward the void. She tightened her hold on him, intent on dragging him down with her. This time, she wouldn’t go alone.

“Zayn,” she whispered, her lips near his ear. “Zayn, come with me.”

He shuddered, his body shaking, the evidence of his loss of control the final ingredient needed to push her over completely. Climax ripped through her, harder this time, more intense than the first. That had only been preparation, it’d only been a primer. It had not prepared her for this. For what it was like to lose control completely, with Zayn. To shake as he did. To be drowning in the swell of pleasure, as he did, too.

When it was over, they clung to each other. She could feel his heart raging against her chest, could see his pulse beating at the base of his neck.

And she heard silence, no more rain, nothing at all.

And she could feel the final bits of sand slipping away.

Time had run out, and the world was encroaching. And she knew that she had been a fool. Because she had imagined that she would walk back into that world unchanged.

But she was changed. Utterly, irrevocably.

She had just made love with Sheikh Zayn Al-Ahmar, and everything inside of her felt new. Felt different. But the world, the monarchy, his engagement, all of the social hierarchy, stood firm. Unmoving, uncaring of everything that had passed between them.

“Zayn?”

He wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her against his chest, reversing their position so that she was partially on top of him. “The roads will still be flooded for a while. You should rest.”

And with those words, he turned the hourglass again, granting them an extension on their time out in the wilderness.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BY THE TIME the light of dawn broke through the edges of the tent door, Zayn had already been awake for hours. He was holding Sophie in his arms, warm, soft and bare, her skin pressed against his. Satisfaction flowed through his veins like warm honey, but then it hardened, turned bitter, as it mixed with the realization of what he had done.

Sophie did not deserve this. She did not deserve to have her virginity taken in a tent, in the middle of the desert, by a man who would have to ignore her when they returned to real life. She did not deserve to be the conduit by which he expended his frustrations. He had reached a breaking point, and it would’ve been far better for him to stand out in the rain and let it wash over him until he was numb again. Until he remembered who he was. And what his responsibilities were.

But she had been there, she had been there saying the things he wanted to hear, offering him the things he wanted most. And she had told him to pretend as though the rest of the world didn’t exist, and he had been far too eager to refuse.